


All I Want For Christmas Is You

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baz is soft for Simon, Baz pov, Boys In Love, Christmas Tree, Christmas fic, Decorating, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, Holidays, Let it Snow zine fic, M/M, Mentions of the Mage, Mentions of the past, Pre-Wayward Son, Their first Christmas after That Christmas, Togetherness, christmas trees, holiday moments, may he rest in pain, mentions of Simon's time in care, still yearning, the first Christmas after Carry On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29141340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: A holiday story written for the Let It Snow zine. Simon and Baz spend the Christmas holiday together, one year after the momentous one that changed everything. This holiday is a little quieter, a little less tumultuous, but definitely all their own. Domestic holiday fluff set one year after Carry On and before Wayward Son.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 19
Kudos: 74
Collections: Let It Snow Zine





	All I Want For Christmas Is You

**All I Want For Christmas is You**

**Baz**

“I’d rather stay here.”

I can see Bunce dart a glance at me as soon as those words leave Snow’s lips. She’d been prattling on about the two of them going to her house for Christmas, not letting him get a word in, frenetic in her eagerness to get her plan sorted.

Bunce and I already discussed this. How to handle the upcoming holiday that had resulted in so many new beginnings last year, yet ultimately was far more about tragic ends. At least as far as it related to Snow. He may have defeated the Humdrum and saved the world, but he lost almost everything that mattered to him: his mentor, his mother figure, his magic. He lost the carefully cobbled together family he’d latched onto at Watford.

The Mage used Simon unrepentantly, neglected him in a cruel and callous way, and endangered him in a frankly criminal fashion.

May the conniving bastard rest in eternal torment.

Simon had trusted him, looked up to him, cared for him in a deeper way than simply the bond between student and teacher. That trust had been betrayed, and ended up costing Simon the very thing he loved most.

Magic.

I knew this was going to be an emotional minefield for him, this holiday creeping up on us. I mentioned it to Bunce in November and she waved me off, telling me she would sort it. I pestered her incessantly the first few weeks of December.

I debated taking Snow with me, to the lodge, but I was afraid it would just remind him of why we weren’t in Hampshire. As if he needs any more reminders of that night.

Just last week I suggested to Bunce perhaps the three of us should make our own holiday, trek to some posh resort or cosy Airbnb and have a quiet time of it—far from any of the places that might trigger unwelcome memories.

She had brushed me off then, too. “Christmas is about family, Basil. He’ll be far more distracted if there are more people about. I told you, I’ve talked to Mum. It’s all sorted.”

Well, it’s not damn well sorted if Snow’s planning on staying here. Alone.

“For Christmas?” Bunce asks him. “I thought you were coming home with me again, Simon.”

Snow shifts on the sofa, his tail thumping against the cushions as he does. It keeps moving, even when the rest of him stills, lashing around his legs and bumping into the coffee table.

“I’d . . . um.” He swallows and it’s still an entire scene. “Er, I’d rather not, if that’s ok.”

Bunce glares at me, as if this is somehow my fault. I curl my lip and glare right back.

I told her not to do this, not to casually drop it in the conversation as if it were already a foregone conclusion.

Snow’s been told what to do his entire life. He’s dependent on us spelling away his wings and tail–so he can go to class, to the cornershop, every single time he wants to leave the flat—with nary a say so about any of it. Bunce does the droid spell on him without even being asked anymore, purely out of habit.

He never used to flinch when she did it.

I try to check myself now—when the urge to cast comes over me, when the impulse to tell him what to do, or what to wear, or any of the number of things that come to mind push their way to the surface.

I’m not Snow’s keeper. I’m his boyfriend. He saved the fucking World of Mages. He should be able to decide what he eats for breakfast, whether he wants to go out without an umbrella, where he wants to spend his bloody Christmas. He deserves some agency in his own life, for Crowley’s sake.

I slide my hand into the small space between us on the sofa, palm up, just brushing against his leg. I release the breath I’ve been holding when his hand comes to rest on top of mine. I thread my fingers between his, soak up the heat emanating from him, and squeeze his hand.

_I’m here for you, love._

I’m grateful when he squeezes back.

“You’re going to stay here and do what, Simon?” Bunce continues. “Be all by yourself for Christmas?”

His fingers tighten around mine. “Yes? Thought it’d be okay. I can stock up on food before you go. Watch holiday movies on Netflix. I’ll be fine.”

I hate everything about that idea. I hate the thought of Snow—curled up in the corner of their lumpy sofa, face bathed in the eerie glow of the television, forlornly eating crisps for his dinner—being alone.

Alone with the swirling memories of blood pooling on a worn wooden floor, lyrics of a song he can no longer bear to hear echoing in his ears, a vision of his magic draining into a void that wore his face, created by the Mage’s sinister plotting.

I give his hand two quick squeezes.

_I’ve got an idea._

He squeezes back, just a light pressure of fingers on the back of my hand.

_Ok?_

I fix my gaze on Bunce, brush my thumb over Simon’s knuckles, and hold forth. “You don’t have to worry about him staying fed, Bunce. I’ll be here in London over the holiday.”

They both gape at me.

“What?” Bunce finds her voice first. “Why on earth will you be here? Your family’s all at the lodge.”

Snow’s got his brow furrowed and his chin jutted out. It’s his thinking expression. I’m painfully familiar with it. He’s either going to puzzle it out or growl at me.

I answer Bunce while he’s still in limbo. “Too many people and not enough room. Fiona and my great-aunt Genevieve are inflicting themselves on the family this holiday and I draw the line at bunking with Magnus.”

I’ve no idea if great-aunt Genevieve is actually still alive, but they don’t need to know that. I’m making this up as I go, but as long as I sound self-assured, I should be able to pull it off.

Snow bumps my shoulder. “Get off, Magnus isn’t that bad, you prig.”

I turn to him, eyebrow raised. “Then you can bunk with him next time we’re there and see if you still think he’s as charming when he’s drooled on your pillow and wet the bed.”

“You drool on the pillow,” Snow mutters, but there’s a smile hovering around his lips.

Bunce rolls her eyes at us. “The offer’s still there, Simon, if you change your mind.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You too, Basil. I can always spell the bathtub for you.”

“How inviting, Bunce. I regret having to pass on that luxury.”

Snow’s tail wraps around my ankle, snaking up my calf. That’s all right, then. He’s not mad that I just invited myself to his solitary Christmas lie-in.

Good.

__________________________

We pack Bunce off two days later, with holiday greetings for her family and eyerolls at her admonition that we not defile the countertops or sully the sofa with our shenanigans.

“I don’t know where you get these licentious ideas, Bunce.” I’ve got my arm around Simon’s waist and his tail is corkscrewed around my thigh as I lean against the doorframe. I’m half tempted to give him a good snog right this minute, just to take the piss with Bunce. A parting sally, as it were, in our never-ending skirmish over appropriate displays of affection.

And then _Snow kisses me_ and Bunce grumbles her way down the stairs, shouting once more when she reaches the landing. “Don’t you dare do anything in the bath, so help me, Basil!”

“Why does she always shout at _me_?” I ask him as I slam the door loudly enough that Bunce should be able to hear it, even three floors down.

“Change of pace, I suppose. She’s been doing it to me for years,” Snow grins.

I loop my arms around his waist and press my forehead to his. “You’re all right with me horning in on your holiday, Snow? I’m not intruding, am I?” We’ve been through this twice already, but I want to be certain I’ve not pushed myself on him.

He shakes his head, the fathomless blue of his eyes filling my vision, his hands coming up to rest on my chest. The heat sears through the layers I’m wearing—shirt and cabled jumper—to ratchet up my heart rate.

There will never be a time I don’t react to his touch, never be a moment when I don’t think, _“how did I ever get here, to be holding Simon Snow in my arms, to be lucky enough to have this?”_

That feeling sweeps over me now as I wait for his answer. That all-encompassing gratitude to the powers that be—to fate, to free will, to the magic of the Crucible, to the wonder that is Simon himself.

He rests his head on my shoulder, tucking himself in the crook of my neck, hands still pressed against my chest. I take the opportunity to hold him closer, fingertips sliding up to rest against the base of his wings.

His voice is a whisper but distinct to my hearing. “I’d wanted to ask you. Didn’t think I should, is all.”

“Ask me what?” I whisper back, lips brushing the curve of his ear.

“To stay.”

He’s not mentioned this before. Not that night, after we’d finally convinced Bunce to let it go, that we’d be fine on our own for the few days she’d be gone. Not yesterday, when I brought it up again, to be certain I wasn’t overstepping.

My fingers flex against the muscles of his back.

_Simon wanted me to stay._

_He wants me to stay._

_He wants me._

“You can ask me anything, Simon.”

He presses his face into my neck, lips brushing against the faint throb of my pulse, his breath making the marble chill of my skin come to life. I’m Galatea 2.0, clad in Fear of God skinny jeans instead of a chiton.

“Didn’t want to take you away from your family,” he mumbles against my collarbone. “You don’t see them enough as is.”

“I can see them anytime I choose.” I press a kiss to his tangled curls. “I prefer to spend this time with you, not a houseful of loud and consistently irritating relatives.”

Snow lifts his head, eyes narrowed. “Do you even have a great-aunt Genevieve?”

I sneer. “I most certainly do.”

“Hmm.”

I press a kiss to his forehead, my lips sliding against an errant curl there. He’s been letting his hair grow out, longer than he usually tolerates. It looks good.

Snow always looks good.

Even when he used to shave away that tangled mop of bronze before leaving Watford every summer.

I’m glad he doesn’t do that anymore.

Even though my fingers had itched to rasp their way across the bristles he left.

It was always the start of something he dreaded, when he would do that. I hope he’s beginning to realise there isn’t much to dread anymore.

Thinking about his summers in care makes me wonder. I generally avoid asking about that time—the years before he came to Watford. It’s a subject we’ve all carefully sidestepped. Even Bunce.

I don’t know what Snow’s Christmases have been like. I am painfully aware he spent years at Wellbelove’s, likely doing the greeting card facsimile of a jolly family holiday. I’ve never wanted to ask about that either. For reasons.

I don’t like to think about him with Agatha, even now.

But I had a thought a few moments ago, when we were chivvying Bunce out. There’s nothing festive here at their flat. No stockings hung with care, no fairy lights twinkling over the doorway, no Christmas tree listing precariously in a corner.

We’ve plans to make one final foray to the shops today, to stock up on the last necessities. Butcher shop for me, bakery for Simon. The staples we can’t do without

I push the lock of hair back from his forehead, let my nails scrape his scalp for an instant before I lower my hand to slide my fingers between his own. “Simon, have you ever put up a Christmas tree? Where you were . . .” I hesitate. “Where you were before or with . . . with Wellbelove?”

His brows lower and his lips press together, a thin line now. I’m about to take the question back when he shakes his head. “Nah. The staff put up a tree at some of the homes. Didn’t let us near it really. Sometimes they’d have pictures of us, printed from our file photos, and they’d hang ‘em on the tree.” He wrinkles his nose. “Bloody awful decorations if you ask me, mugshots of surly boys scattered amidst the tinsel.”

He huffs a laugh but it’s not his usual one. There’s an edge to it. I’m surprised when he keeps talking. “The tree at Agatha’s was always Mrs. Wellbelove’s business. She and Helen would have it up before Agatha and I would get there. White lights only. Perfectly lined up silver ornaments and glittering icicles. I always steered clear of it. Didn’t want to bump into something and bring the whole thing down.” His wings flex and flare once before tucking in close again. “I’d be a right nuisance near any Christmas tree now, I’d say.”

There’s a crease on his forehead, a frown that distorts his face. I want to press my thumb to his skin, rub that stubborn line away, kiss the downturned lips until they melt into mine.

I don’t. He’s got that far-away look, the thousand-yard stare. It’s not something I can kiss away.

It’s time for new memories.

I tug on his hand. “Come along, then.”

“Come along where?”

“We’ve got a Christmas tree to buy.”

“What? You must be joking, Baz. There can’t be a tree left in London today.”

“You’d be surprised.”

I’m the one who’s surprised. There is not one blasted evergreen specimen to be had for love or money. The blood is on ice in my carrier bag, the bakery items carefully cradled in Simon’s arms. A woefully mismatched collection of ornaments and baubles resides in the shopping bag I’m holding, but we are decidedly short one Christmas tree.

We have tramped for miles and I am to the point of magicking one away from the park, casting a _“nothing to see here”_ on the both of us and making a runner. We’re practically to Ealing Common when I spot the sign for _The Christmas Forest._

Their selection can only be described as grim. I probably would have been better off nicking a tree from Gunnersbury Park.

There’s time for that on our way home, I suppose.

Snow’s been quiet. Subdued. Enough that I am keeping up the conversation for the both of us and I’m bordering on telling myself to sod off. I don’t know why I’m being like this— prattling on about Christmases past and Paddington Bear and the trifle Daphne makes for Christmas dinner. I’m used to silences with him. I’m usually content to simply share his space, words be damned.

I typically don’t natter on like Mordelia with her endless soliloquies on Father Christmas and her gift list.

Snow’s trudging next to me as I inspect the paltry remnants of Christmas cheer available to us. But then he suddenly veers off to my left, headed directly towards what might be the most pitiful specimen of them all. It’s a scrawny little evergreen, short and squat, with an asymmetric array of mangy branches and a scoliotic curve to its trunk. It’s truly hideous, but it’s exactly what Snow wants.

The shopkeeper is almost embarrassed to sell it to us. He still wants money for it, mind you (he’s not _that_ shamed), but it’s a modest amount.

Snow hefts our little Quasimodo tree with one arm and we make the arduous trek back to his flat, hampered by packages and poked by needles, a rivulet of treacly sap trickling onto Snow’s jacket.

It’s brilliant.

He’s got a smile on his face as he struggles to keep the tree from snagging on a passerby or depositing the rest of its drooping needles on the pavement.

Back at the flat we manage to wrestle it into the tree-stand the sellerso helpfully provided and bicker over which way to turn it.

It doesn’t have a good side. It leans no matter what we do, but I’ll not resort to magic to fix it. This is our tree and it’s as much of a mess as we are.

I like that.

I drape a strand of lights on it, then Snow reverently hangs the ornaments one by one. There’s a star for the top, which is comically at chest height for me. It’s such a pathetic little shrub, but by the time we’ve finished it glows with a warmth that lights up the flat.

Snow joins me on the sofa, his face illuminated by the multi-coloured lights blinking on and off on our tree.

I put an arm around him and pull him close. “Not a bad job in the end.”

He rests his head on my shoulder. “It’s right festive.”

He’s off the sofa a moment later. “Just one thing,” Snow says, before he dashes down the hallway to his room.

He walks back more slowly, fussing with something in his hands. He grunts when he gets it right and then hangs it on the tree.

It’s a photograph of us. Snow’s smiling and I’m planting a kiss on his cheek. Bunce took it a few days after they moved into their flat.

He drops down next to me, puts his head on my shoulder and slings an arm across my waist. “Now it’s perfect,” Snow says.

And it is.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Christmas classic by Mariah Carey All I Want for Christmas is You
> 
> I don't know if A Charlie Brown Christmas is something that has ever aired in the UK but the Christmas tree in this fic is rocking the same vibe as the sad little specimen featured in that Christmas special. Just a bit taller and with more branches.


End file.
